


of love (and only love)

by madderain



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, X-Men (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/F, F/M, M/M, Reader-Insert, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Three-Paragraph Ficlet Collection (mostly)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-11
Updated: 2016-07-29
Packaged: 2018-04-08 19:13:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 2,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4316508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madderain/pseuds/madderain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>more like 3 + 43 paragraphs in celebration of steve not dying in civil war</p></blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [write love on my skin](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1835587) by [amusewithaview](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amusewithaview/pseuds/amusewithaview). 



You weren’t marked at birth. Your soul was your own, unhalved,  _whole._ That, they said, was what made you the best. It made you the most efficient. The soul-bound, with words seared into their skin, the ones who were given a place in this world, the ones who were _made_ for someone — they were sent to remove their soulmates.

To you, a blank space, a whole, it is nonsensical and fascinating, that two people can feel so strongly for one another, perfect strangers, all for empty words etched onto their skin. When your own mark appears, you feel nothing, your body too accustomed to pain to truly _feel_ anything. But as you run your fingers over the burning words setting around your neck, you are certain you feel _something_ , at least.

_Give it your best shot, doll._


	2. Chapter 2

Your words, looping very pleasantly around the soft skin of your left wrist, have bound you from the moment of your birth. Obviously, you speak first, with a question, because they reply with a rhetorical _Well, some people without brains do an awful lot of talking, don’t they?_

Never mind the oddity of the response, it’s colour is utterly perplexing. It was black first, as any other mark, but it came to life, with time. In daylight, the words glow gold and gentle and _beautiful_ , and you hope, with all the grand, sempiternal hope of a child, that your soulmate will feel the same infinite, wonderful, bewildering love.

When you meet the Vision, so good and gentle and _alive_ , it all begins to make sense.


	3. Chapter 3

**one.**

Tony Stark’s soul mark doesn’t appear until he’s twenty, which, of course, works, because he’ll have to wait another eighteen years before he can even _think_ about doing anything with whoever is on the other side, which gives him plenty of time to do whatever he wants to do. Then eighteen years come and go, he turns thirty eight, and still nothing. No one. The mark never made sense until then, though, until he becomes Iron Man, which, he realises on the long run, _does not work_ , because his soulmate explicitly states it’s some other masked, comic book crusader they like.

Whatever.

He waits six more years after that. Within that span of time, Pepper also dumps him. Well, technically, _he_ dumps _her_ , but that’s apparently not up for discussion. She still runs the company, though, and he’s still waiting. By now, Tony has JARVIS running worldwide searches for his partner, starting with pop culture paraphernalia, since his soulmate’s probably a nerd, considering his mark, but still nothing, which, by every definition in Tony Stark’s book, is ridiculous.

 

* * *

 

**two.**

“Sir.” JARVIS interrupts Tony’s tinkering.

“JARVIS, I’m working.”

“Sir, I believe I found a match.”

 

* * *

 

**three.**

“Hi, I’m your soulmate.”

First line of thought: _What the fuck._ Second, once the words sink in: _Oh, no._ And third, out loud: “But I like Batman.”

Tony Stark smirks, offers you a shrug. “Sorry, sweetheart. Just me.”


	4. Chapter 4

Of course. Of _course_. Leave it to those Operations commandos to start a fight on their first day here. You don’t mean to get involved. You don’t mean to do _anything_. Honestly, that warning you got a few weeks earlier about your behaviour works quite efficiently at keeping you still, until Rollins decides to _fuck_ with your machine. You totally ICER him, except it doesn’t really work and he’s totally going to punch you in the face until Faux Hawk barks at his men and yanks the Night Night gun off your hand. “Give me that.”

You scowl, pulling your sleeve over the same three words scratched along your forearm. “Kiss my _ass_ , Agent Rumlow.”

Rumlow stills for a millisecond, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement. “It’s Commander to you, rookie.”


	5. Chapter 5

Clint was thirteen when his first mark appeared, a few days after Duquesne gave him an old compound bow, _Still want me to put it down?_ carving itself into his shoulder blade. His second set of words came four years later, three small words seared across his palm. _You’re my mark._ Clint used to wonder whether that meant mark as in _soul_ mark, or mark as in _mark_. Turned out it was the latter.

Your words had been there since birth, a set of letters tied around your ankle, penned lightly by a delicate hand, reading,  _And I’m his, and you’re mine._ The other set, distinctly masculine, curling behind your ear, asked, _You gonna shoot me, kid?_

Natasha was born with one soul mark, four words scratched messily across her pelvic bone. _Drop the knife, Widow._ It made little sense, then, to a child; with time, the Red Room stripping away the porcelain, it came to explain a lot. The second mark didn’t come until she turned four.  _Change of plans._


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more like 3 + 43 paragraphs in celebration of steve not dying in civil war

You stared at the TV, distinctly unimpressed.

_Captain America and the Falcon ARRESTED!_

_Captain America and the Falcon ESCAPE after Berlin attack!_

_Captain America and the Falcon WANTED!_

You flipped through the channels, snorting at the headlines. Captain America was being declared a fugitive,  _again_. You wondered what their reasoning was this time. Probably the Accords. Fucking Accords. Tony had called a few days ago, asking you if you were going to sign it, and you’d promptly hung up. You weren’t an Avenger. You made that clear from the beginning. A few days later, a suspiciously large, car-shaped package arrived on your driveway, along with a handwritten note that read  _A small token of I guess my apology, from your friend and funder Tony_ , complete with a doodle of what you assumed was the peace hand gesture. You still weren’t signing.

You looked down as your phone vibrated, the name of your oldest friend lighting up the screen. You tapped the green answer button and held the Stark tech against your ear. “Hello?”

“[Y/N], it’s me. Listen,” Wanda said hurriedly in Sokovian. “They might be coming for you. You need to go before they do. Hide.”

“I don’t think—” You stopped short at the faint sound of tires screeching against the pavement outside.

Huh. You weren’t expecting any visitors.

“Hold that thought.”

You slid the phone into your pocket, padding over to the window to see three SUVs pulling in. A dozen men dressed as civilians jumped out. Standard tact teams, six to make contact, the other six to surround the perimeter. So much for going incognito. You snorted and listened intently for the gentle hum of the metal in their guns, but came up short. You frowned, tried again. You could feel every inch of metal within the block, the outline of every gate, every car, every knife, but there was no trace of metal in their weapons.

That was . . . unexpected.

And also left you no choice but to do this the hard way.

The gate at the front of your house broke apart at your bidding and formed seven separate cords, grabbing the closest men and wrapping around their bodies like a vice. The others yelled instructions at each other in psychobabble spy code speak that made zero sense to you, each men drawing clear plastic guns with bullets that looked like darts, making you scowl. Tranquillisers. You were about to  _drill_  some manners into the agents when a dart flew past your head, missing you by a hairline, and promptly sent you out the door and running for the hills. You got as far as the streets in twenty seconds flat, stopping in your tracks when a Volkswagen Beetle came into view, skidding to a halt in front of you and blocking your way. You held your hand up, about to force the metal to fold in on itself and squish the dirty bastards inside it that were trying to tranq you when a window rolled down and a voice that sounded a lot like Steve Rogers shouted, “Duck!”

You ducked, and his shield whooshed over your head at a million miles a minute, knocking out three of the agents in pursuit. The vibranium was literally  _singing_  to you. You stretched your arm, controlled it, sent it towards the last two men standing and knocking them out before guiding the shield back to you. You exhaled in relief, trying to catch your breath, but nope. Two more government SUVs rolled into view. You threw your hands in the air in exasperation, the gesture coincidentally yanking the wheels out of the cars, dove into the back seat of Steve’s probably stolen vehicle, put the pedal to the medal and forced the car to drive.

Sam nodded at you as you let out a puff of breath. “Good to see you, [Y/N].”

“You, too, Sam. Thanks,” you said to Steve.

He nodded. “Anytime.”

It wasn’t until you slumped in the seat and turned your head that you noticed the giant hulk of a man sitting next to you. You looked him up and down, noticed the long brown hair and metal arm. Your mouth formed an O. Before you could freak out, because the  _Winter Soldier_ , he gave you a bro-nod and said, “Cool power.”

You were about to return the bro-nod when you processed his words.

_Waitaminute **waitaminute**_.

The car screeched to a halt.

Steve looked back at you, concern written over his face. “What?”

“What’d you do this time?” Sam asked the Winter Soldier accusingly, who looked lost.

“He just said the words.”

“The what?”

“He just said the words,” you repeated. You unclasped the unclasp-sable metal band around your wrist and stuck your arm out to Steve, showing the super soldier your soul mark. “Is this his writing?”

Steve’s face went from confused to surprised to confused again. “Yeah, that, that’s his writing.”

Sam’s eyebrows rose. “Wait, you two?”

“Holy shit.” You reached for the phone in your pocket. “Wanda?”

“Thank God,” the other girl breathed down the line. “I’m here. Are you with Steve and Sam?”

“Steve and Sam,  _and_  my soulmate,” you told her.

“I know.”

“You  _know?”_

“Yes,” she said, “and I also know he may try to kill you. Tell Steve we will meet him at the airport,” before ending the call.

In the corner of your eye, you saw the metal arm reach for you. You blinked and stopped it in an instant before it could strangle you.

“I only want to see the words,” he said.

You peered at him suspiciously but released his bionic arm. He grabbed your hand, brushed his fingers against the two words scrawled across your wrist. “Why aren’t you saying anything?” he asked.

Why  _weren’t_  you saying anything? Hmm, maybe because growing up, you always thought “Cool power” was a normal human, then after Strucker you crossed your fingers for the Falcon, but nope. Nope nope nope nope nope. This hot piece of hotness and metal (coincidentally, your two favourite things) never even crossed your mind, because nope. You thought about his question for a moment, shrugged, not really sure  _what_  to say. Not really sure you wanted to say something in the first place, because the  _Winter Soldier_.

He stared at you for a moment, the bluest blue eyes searching yours, before reaching for the hem of his shirt. “This—”

You realised he was about to show you his words and your free hand flew to your eyes in the nick of time. “No, don’t show me!” and, huh. You wedged a gap between your middle finger and ring finger to find the Winter Soldier staring at you with a self-satisfied little smile. “You tricked me!” you cried indignantly.

“Got you to say the words,” he drawled. “Got no idea how long I wanted to hear those words, doll.” The  _Winter Soldier_  was still holding your wrist. He turned your palm over and pressed his lips against the back of your hand. “I’m Bucky.”

“I’m—” A thought sunk in. “Bucky? Bucky Barnes?  _The_  Bucky Barnes? The Bucky Barnes Captain America  _cries_  about, his sidekick Bucky Barnes?”

He cocked a brow, nodded.

“Wait.” Hold the fuck up. “How is this even possible? You’re a hundred.”

Bucky blinked owlishly. “I’m not . . . a hundred,” he said, somewhat affronted. He was ninety-nine.


	7. Chapter 7

You swallow through the pain shooting up your arm, not used to anything more painful than accidental chemical burns in the lab, least of all a gun shot. In an instant, someone is grabbing your chin, forcing your eyes open, and you look up to find Agent Barton hovering over you. “Look at me!” he shouts over the gunfire, slapping your cheek sharply. “Hey!” Can’t breathe. You gasp, trying to get air into your lungs. You can’t tell if you’re hyperventilating because of the pain in your arm or because Hawkeye just said your words. “Hey! It’s just a scratch, you hear me? You’re fine! Keep your eyes on me!”

You try not to cry as you rack your brain for a response. _I don’t want to die. I’m too young to die. I just met my soulmate._ HYDRA still exists. HYDRA isn’t supposed to exist. “This sucks,” you wail. Before you black out, you see recognition and panic flash in his blue eyes.

Clint curses under his breath. “Damn it.”


End file.
